Fighter
by pdljmpr6
Summary: You fight like somethin’s trying to get outta ya’ - A Hitter. Something Eliot had learned to be, by choice. A Fighter. Something he had always been. By design. Eliotcentric multichap. The things that happen in our past shape who we are now...
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** I'm basing my assumptions of Eliot's past on The Tap Out Job, The Order 23 Job and my own crazy imagination. Hope you enjoy! - pj

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The day Eliot was born was more than fifty-seven days too early. He'd come out screamin', his momma always said. Screamin', punchin' and kickin'. Fighting for every breath, determined to be a part of the world, like it or not.

He wasn't expected to make it through the night.

His momma stayed with him that night. Smiling through the glass that separated them in the NICU, singing softly, urging him to fight.

Three weeks later, she took him home.

He grew, as all boys would and he learned by watching, as all children do. Fighting was all he knew.

His daddy was always coming home with some new bruise or cut or sore. The man loved a bar fight or work scuffle more than just about anything. That was okay, it actually put him in a pretty good mood. But after a few drinks all that changed and Eliot spent many nights under his bed, waiting for the fighting to stop. Hoping there wouldn't be blood this time.

When he got old enough for school, Eliot didn't know that fighting was not always an appropriate reaction. If he didn't get his way, or didn't understand, or just plain couldn't get rid of the _tighthurtclench _feeling in his chest, he would fight. Because it was all he knew to do. All he'd ever seen. All he'd ever known.

He got into a lot of fights, he was always in trouble. Many afternoons were spent walking home in the rain, in the snow, in the sun because there was no one at his house to come get him after being sent to the principals' office.

He fought to defend himself. To defend someone else. Sometimes he fought just to fight.

And he learned quickly to win. Daddy wouldn't tolerate a loser in the house. So he got better. Got quicker, smarter and stronger.

It was one of those times when he was fighting just because he had no reason not to when he realized there was a beast inside him. Something wild and uncontrollable.

Something that scared him.

He was 12 years old and by then, he knew that fighting was sometimes wrong, maybe even most of the time. He tried not to fight without a reason. He was quick to defend a smaller kid being shoved into a locker, or protect a girl from a bully. He knew it was right to fight in those times.

But this time he didn't have a reason. Other than he'd watched his father hit his mother _so hard_ last night and there was nothing he could do, because his arm and face just hurt _so much_. He hadn't been able to fight for his mother. To protect her from his father who was so much bigger and stronger than he was.

So when he got to school, desperate for control and an release for his pent up rager, he picked a fight with Dean, a big kid with a shock of blonde hair and three inches on Eliot. Dean loved to shove kids in lockers.

But it turned out that it wasn't a very good day for Dean either and he gave as good as he got. He kept egging Eliot on, kept talking, kept teasing. So Eliot kept shoving, kept punching, kept pulling.

And then Dean said something about his momma.

It took two teachers and a gang of Eliot's friends to pull him off the other boy. By the time they did Dean had two swollen eyes and blood was pouring from his nose and in his mouth.

And he was crying.

Eliot stumbled back. He looked down at his hands and saw them bleeding from the knuckles. He couldn't breathe.

He looked up and saw the kids from his class all staring at him, wide eyed and open mouthed. He'd never seen that look on their faces before. The other kids all looked at him different after a fight. Some with admiration, some respect, some disgust and some awe. But no one had ever looked at him like this.

Never with fear. And it made Eliot a little afraid too.

He didn't fight for a long time after that.

He promised himself he would never hurt anyone intentionally again. He didn't want to be like his father, he knew that much.

By the time he got to high school his reputation for being a fighter had worn off but the story of what had happened that day on the playground never really faded. In a small town like his, gossip spread like wildfire and died slow and hard.

And Dean's face was never quite the same.

Eliot had apologized to the boy in front of the whole school and in a letter, and once personally after his community service was up when he met him on the corner near his house. But Dean never looked him in the eye again.

So Eliot got used to being alone, got through most of high school that way. He didn't have any siblings and, well, it's hard to be friends with someone you're scared of. Hard to be friends with someone who's scared of you.

Until his Junior year when the wrestling coach, a new guy from out of town named Jonathan heard about him. He noted the broad set of Eliot's shoulders and short, but powerful legs he'd inherited from his father and tried to recruit him for the team.

At first Eliot said 'no'. He didn't want any part of fighting anymore.

But, he'd found, the _uneasytenseheavy_ feeling that had been so hard to control as a child was just as hard to control as a teen and running just wasn't cutting it anymore. Every now and then he could pluck at some guitar strings and calm it a bit but it was never quite gone. It made him grumpy and irritable, snapping at others when they dared talk to him, only serving to cement his reputation as a dangerous boy.

So one day he decided to stop by the gym during wrestle practice and see what it was all about. He hung out near the door with his back to the wall watching quietly and carefully, not unlike a wounded animal who has been confronted by a seemingly kind hand.

Jonathan saw him and smiled and waved. He convinced him to try out for the team.

Eliot frowned but stepped out onto the mat, circling his opponent, anticipating the movements he unwittingly telegraphed. He pinned the guy in under a minute.

The coach was impressed and chose him to help demonstrate new holds to the rest of the team. Eliot expected the proximity, the feeling of hands and arms constricting him across his chest or around his head. He was not expecting what it made him do.

Jonathan groaned from the flat of his back, his breath momentarily gone and his head spinning. Eliot turned and ran to the locker room, the memory of too many nights at home that he'd rather forget buzzing around in his head.

He never went back.

_TBC- if you liked it, and would like to read more, please do tell! :-)  
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	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Okay, so...Eliot is always pissed, like the world personally screwed him over. What if it did? Enjoy! - pj

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A small, dying town has a way of bleeding the hope and belief out of you and leaving only the stubborn and weary behind. But Jonathan hadn't been around long enough for that to happen yet. He decided not to give up on the strange, quiet boy who'd flattened him (with a completely legal move mind you), like it was nothing.

He'd opened a boxing gym in town and asked Eliot to come down and train. He didn't have to sign up or fight, just train. He thought it might give him something to do. And Eliot took it for the peace offering it was.

Everyone knew about Eliot's father, even if no one did anything about it.

Eliot himself never knew why his father hated him. It just was. Like breathing. Like his mama's cookin' was the best in town (and maybe the world). Just a fact. Eliot had learned it as a child and grown up with the reality. He also knew his father meant to make him pay for ever being born, and his mother meant to protect him. So, to protect her, Eliot learned to stay gone. He left the house before the sun came up and didn't come home till long after dark, hoping his mother would be safer that way.

One day after he'd finished up at the Martin's stables and before his shift began at Otto's Auto Repair, Eliot stopped by Jonathan's gym. He stood in the shadows and watched for a while and left before anyone really noticed him.

He decided he would return later that night after his shift ended.

The place was closed and dark inside with only a large hanging light over the ring for illumination.

Eliot narrowed his eyes, thinking for a moment and then picked the lock. He knew how to pick a lock. He could break into and hot wire a car without leaving a scratch too. There's not much to do in a small town except learn to break small town laws.

Once inside he wandered around the perimeter of the gym, unconsciously counting exits as he examined the equipment. He approached a line of body bags against the far wall and tilted his head at them.

He stared at a spot on the leather, slowly shrugging off his coat as he allowed years of repressed anger and frustration and _hell _to bubble up inside him. Then, in a flash of violent movement his arm shot out from his side, his fist impacting with the object and all his weight behind the blow. Then he did it again and again, this time with his left hand, then again with his right. From below, from the side, over and over as he lost himself lost himself in the rhythm and the release.

When his knuckles were swollen and his wrists ached and there was sweat pouring down his back he leaned over and put his hands on his knees.

Then he was grinning, because he realized the only discomfort he felt in his chest was from exertion. And he could _breathe_. He hadn't felt that in…actually, he wasn't sure he had ever felt that.

It was nice.

Eliot could burn another two or three hours at the gym after his shift at Otto's. And three hours anywhere was better than three hours at home, so it wasn't long before his little B&E pit stops at the boxing gym became habit.

Then one night he came in and Jonathan was waiting for him.

He wasn't angry when he saw Eliot break in. Didn't scream at him or threaten to call the cops and Eliot watched wearily as the man walked slowly over to him. He forced himself not to flinch when he held out his hand and gave the boy a key so he would 'stop scratching up the outsides of his doors' and walked him over to one of the Heavy bags to critique his form.

Eliot didn't object to the lesson, instead he silently took the advice and corrected his stance and follow through.

Jonathan took to meeting him after that.

He may have had a bum leg and nerve damage in his back, but Jonathan had been a champion fighter once and he had more than a few pointers to share. And Eliot was an eager, thoughtful, surprisingly intelligent student.

The days wore on with business as usual. Everyday Eliot would stop at the gym after his shift at Otto's and Jonathan would be there correcting his footing or reminding him to keep his head down or taking him down a notch when he got cocky by trying stuff he'd seen in the movies.

And Eliot flourished under the one-on-one attention, finding the man was filling a hole inside of him he hadn't been aware of. Where fighting had never touched.

Then came the day Eliot was reminded of the reason it was best to be a lone wolf.

It was a sweltering summer night in June and the air was so humid Eliot was sweating standing still. He stopped at a gas station on his way to the gym to get himself and Jonathan something to drink.

He would regret that decision for the rest of his life.

He finally arrived at the gym and he let himself in with his key. He'd almost called out his presence when he heard the distinct sound of fists on flesh and took off running for the back office.

Three men in dark jackets and gloves were holding Jonathan by the arms and hitting him. And dropping him. And kicking him.

Eliot didn't recognize them. He didn't recognize anything except Jonathan.

And Jonathan wasn't moving.

Eliot rushed in, seeing red and swinging blind, just like that time when he was a kid. Only this time he was older and smarter. This time he knew what he was doing.

Mere minutes later he stood, swiping a hand across his mouth. His whole body tingled with adrenalin and some of the intruders' limbs were facing odd directions.

But all he could see was Jonathan.

He dropped to his knees beside the man, crying like the child he suddenly felt like, pleading with him as he pulled the phone down from the desk and dialed 911.

_Please don't go_.

He must have spoken to a 911 operator, though he doesn't for the life of him remember what he said. Jonathan's breathing was growing harsh and Eliot couldn't find an open wound on him but there was blood coming out with every coughing, choking breath.

It was too late and Eliot knew it. So he pulled him up to his chest and held on, waiting. Just waiting.

Later, he stood outside the gym after the ambulance and the ME had left, staring off into space. The commotion had drawn a crowd but it dissipated when the last of the flickering lights drove away, murmured rumors beginning their journey through the never ending grapevine. The Sheriff sidled up to him, and with what was supposed to be a consoling word, laid a hand on Eliot's shoulder.

It took an amount of self control the boy didn't think he had to keep from breaking it.

The man had never helped Eliot before, why should he let him help now?

He shrugged off the gesture and turned to walk away, ignoring the Sheriff's calls and the curious glances of lingering onlookers, his head hung low and his hands stuffed in his pockets.

He walked away, not knowing where he was going. Not knowing where he was.

Somehow he made it to the Martin's house. He must have knocked because Aimee was suddenly in his arms on the front porch, all watery brown eyes and sympathetic 'I'm sorry's and smelling like flowers after rain.

Eliot had lost the strength to respond in her warm embrace and he fell into the porch swing to keep from having to admit he could no longer stand. She wrapped herself around him and laid her head on his shoulder and he got the feeling she was all that was holding him together.

Aimee sat with him on the swing until the sky started to lighten, hands entwined and warmth shared.

Mrs. Martin poked her head out of the house at some point just long enough to bring them hot chocolate and a blanket.

Mr. Martin headed out to start chores at dawn and told Eliot he didn't want to see his face at the stables for at least a week and that he would take care of Flash while he was gone.

Eliot had always liked the Martins.

When it came time to leave Aimee begged him not to go. She knew how precariously balanced he was on the edge and didn't want him to fall all alone.

But Eliot was stubborn. He hadn't been home since the morning before and he knew his momma would be worried about him. He hated to make his momma worry.

So he kissed her, kissed her again, and turned and left without looking back.

He made it home around the time he would normally have been leaving and pushed the door open to find the house was quiet. It shouldn't have seemed strange; the house was always quiet. But this time it was different. He could feel it.

Something was wrong.

_TBC- I got such a great reaction to the first chapter, thanks so much for the reviews! I'd love to hear what you thought of this one :-)  
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	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Special thanks to _**bettine, risingphoenix05, TeacherTam, **_and **_TexasPrissy _**who have this story on alert and **_Princess in the Pea_** who has this story favorited. You rock! And this chapter is dedicated to **_VolceVoice_**, **_Hope06 _**and **_PetPolka _**who motivated my posting this next chapter by reviewing (along with having it on alert and/or favorited) you guys are win!! Thanks to all the readers out there! Enjoy! - pj

---

Eliot walked through the house silently, his eyes alert and breathing shallow and quiet. He peeked into each room looking for signs of his mother, watching for signs of his father.

His emotions were already on edge and dangerously close to a break. He was exhausted and drained, but he took great care not to make any noise, his fists clenched and his muscles tight.

When he stepped into the upstairs hallway, a strong hauntingly familiar scent tickled his nose and made him want to gag. Iron. Blood.

He started swallowing convulsively and reminding himself to breathe. He pushed down rising panic and fought the urge to call out to his mother, he knew couldn't stand the silence being his only answer.

Eliot quelled the instinct to run and pushed his feet further down the hall. There was a something dark and heavy in his chest telling him what he was afraid to think.

He paused at each door down the hall, listening, but his eyes stayed locked on the one on the left at the far end. His parent's bedroom.

Eliot stood outside the door for several seconds, listening for voices or movement or breathing. The scent was strongest here.

He didn't hear anything.

When he finally convinced himself to look inside he pushed the door open in one big, desperate move.

What he saw ripped the breath from his chest and sent his heart hammering straight up into his throat.

It was everywhere.

Blood.

Splattered on the walls. The furniture. The bedspread. The mirror.

And his mother. His momma. Who made lemonade in the summertime and gingersnap cookies in the winter. Who protected him from his father, always at the cost to herself.

She lay in a crumpled heap on the carpeted floor, a dark stain growing around her. Her soft, flowing black hair was tangled around her face. Her eyes were open, staring at nothing.

And just like he'd known with Jonathan earlier that night, he knew now.

He was too late.

He looked up. There was blood and hair on the corner of the dresser and he swallowed hard to keep the bile from rising in his throat. Someone had bashed her head in.

No.

Not _someone_.

He knew exactly who had done it.

_Him_.

The pain in his stomach reached a crescendo and Eliot ran back down the hall to the bathroom in time to throw up. He dry heaved for almost ten minutes after that until he realized those were sobs racking his chest, not his stomach clenching against itself. He dropped down to the floor beside the toilet and tried desperately to get a breath of air before he blacked out. He hadn't cried like this since he was a child, since the first time he saw his father hit his mother. Since the first time he saw her bleed for him.

The guilt that slammed into him at that moment almost killed him.

His whole body was trembling and he pressed his hands against his eyes.

_I __should have done something. Anything. Why wasn't I here? She spent my whole life protecting me, loving me, being there. And where was I when she needed me? The one time I might have been able to protect her and I was out licking my own wounds._

Eliot slammed his fist against the wall but it did nothing to ease the rage that was bubbling up in his stomach, spreading across his chest. It was different this time. Uncontrollable.

He fought the lightheadedness that made the world wobble, forced his shaky legs to hold his weight and pulled himself up on the towel rod, stumbling over to the counter to splash water on his face. When he looked up at himself in the mirror, he saw all the childish fear and uncertainly he'd been carrying around for his entire life had faded away. In the cool blue of his eyes he only saw one thing.

Only a killer.

His legs were unsteady, exhausted from pain and grief, but they got him out of the bathroom and down the stairs without incident. He slammed into the kitchen to rip the phone off the wall and dialed 911. By the time the operator picked up, Eliot was already gone.

His grandfather, his mother's father, was a full blood Arapaho Indian and had taught a six-year-old version of Eliot to track before he died. To read signs. Anticipate thought processes. Make educated guesses.

Eliot didn't use any of those skills that night.

He knew exactly where to find Him and Eliot ran the whole way there.

His father sat on a stool at the bar right in front of the television looking for all the world like an innocent man. Harmless. Bored and buzzed but not a threat.

Eliot knew better.

He walked straight over to him. The place was nearly empty and He was hunched over a beer, his eyes lazily tracking the game on the tv. He didn't look anything like the towering, angry man Eliot had grown up fearing. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the bartender straighten, recognizing the look on the young man's face, but he didn't veer off his course.

The older man turned to look at his son and for the first time in his life Eliot didn't flinch upon meeting his eyes.

But his whole body tensed with the need to act. To avenge.

Maybe if the man had shown some remorse, maybe if he'd said sorry or showed even a hint of regret, _maybe _Eliot would have been able to stop himself.

But he didn't.

Instead he looked up at Eliot with that sick, twisted, drunken smile of his, the only smile Eliot had ever known from the man and uttered the words that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

The ones that pushed him over the edge.

_Bitch deserved it for protecting a worthless shit like you. _

Even years later Eliot never knew exactly what happened in that bar. Just like the time when he was a kid he didn't know how long it lasted or where all the blood had come from. Only that when it was over He had been almost unrecognizable.

Eliot fled town that same night in his father's truck.

He drove until nothing looked familiar anymore and pulled off to the side of the road and fell out, staggering almost thirty feet away from the truck before he surprised himself by being able to throw up again.

The blood was still on his hands and jeans and face and it was suffocating him.

So much blood.

_Jonathan_.

So much violence.

_Momma_.

So much rage.

_Him_.

Eliot might have screamed.

He might have cried.

He might have fallen to his knees in the dirt and prayed for…_something_.

And when he was too exhausted to breathe anymore he dragged himself up into the bed of the truck and passed out, wishing not to wake back up again.

But he had never been that lucky.

_TBC- Hope I get to hear from *you* this time ::points at screen and winks::, reviews are what fuel my muse...well, that and red bull...but mostly reviews. :-)  
_


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Special thanks to **_VolceVoice_**, **_Hope06 _**and _**TeacherTam**_ who reviewed, and a good thing too because I haven't had a Red Bull in three days...I'm depressed about not being at ConCon, so I'm consoling myself with inordinate amounts of fanfic. I don't know if we have an official name yet but..._Levheads _forever! Enjoy! - pj

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Six months later found Eliot in Dallas in a one bedroom place on the top floor of a decrepit apartment building. He was well practiced at keeping his head down and walking without making a sound and he put those skills to good use on a regular basis.

It wasn't the safest part of town.

In the dark corners of seedy bars and under clouds of cigarette smoke in back alleys, rumors started circulating of the new guy who was hanging around. A man as polite and courteous as any well brought up socialite and with eyes that burned bright blue and ice cold. Who's hands could kill as easily as hold a door open for a woman to walk through and a temper that burned shorter and hotter than most dynamite fuses.

Somewhere between odd shifts as a gas station mechanic and hustling pool at the bar a block from his building, Eliot had started making a name for himself.

He decided it was as good a name as any.

People started coming to him, asking for his 'help'. It wasn't usually legal. It was _never _legal, actually.

But the money was good and getting paid to kick ass was definitely worth the risk of getting caught.

Besides, he didn't get caught.

On his twenty-first birthday Eliot got drunk for the first and last time. He ran his mouth to the wrong guy and when he woke up, bruised and sore, he was in a room he didn't recognize and told he was 'a part of the crew'. No discussions.

Eliot had protested immediatly, growling through his bloodied teeth even as his arms were held painfully behind his back.

The man, Halling, had smiled a cold grin and told him he wouldn't leave. Not when he owed him money. Halling wouldn't allow it.

Eliot asked what he'd meant and been fed a story about entering a bought fight and betting on himself. A bet he lost.

He would never have believed him if he didn't have the vague memory of the circumstances to which Halling referred playing through his head like a black and white movie. He'd been buzzed and so cocky Jonathan would have beat him himself had he been there to hear it.

_"I could kick your ass six ways to Sunday" Eliot grinned and downed another shot. _

_He wiped his sleeve over his mouth and nodded vigorously, "hell yeah I wanna bet."_

Eliot may not have liked his father, didn't respect him as far as he could throw him, but he'd been raised to do two things: never go back on your word, and never welch on a debt.

He owed the man five grand and Halling intended to see to it that young Eliot worked it off.

So he did.

He collected debts from Halling's underground fights, he bounced drunks out of Halling's bars. He busted noses for Halling's pride and, sometimes, he was allowed to fight to keep himself sane.

Two years later, Eliot marched into Hallings office, whipping his too-long hair out of his eyes and dropped a bag of cash onto the man's large oak desk.

"What's this?" He'd snarled, with the same cold smile on his lips Eliot had come to expect.

"The money I owe you." Eliot growled back, aware of the two large men standing on either side of the boss, staring him down.

Halling glanced into the brown paper sack, "there can't be more than $2000 there."

"Fifteen hundred," Eliot corrected, "the rest I've worked off in the past two years and you know it."

Halling glared at him and Eliot returned it with equal venom, "Here's what's gonna happen. I'm gonna walk outta here, free and clear. You follow me, I'll see you. You look for me, I'll find you first," he let his eyes flicker to the muscle, men he'd come to call something close to friends, as they pulled out their guns and trained them on him. Rage warred against hurt as he met their eyes.

"Try to stop me, and I'll kill you."

They had.

He did.

Eliot never heard from Halling again.

---

After 'parting ways' with Halling, Eliot moved on to LA. His reputation, solidified as one of Halling's goons, gave him enough credibility to get in with the local crime lords.

But Eliot wasn't up for working with a unit again. Not now. Not ever.

The marks were scarce and difficult for a solo artist, but he made just enough to get by on Smash and Grab for a few years while learning, sometimes painfully, how to pull longer cons and lie more convincingly.

Enter Marcus Jennings.

Marcus wasn't like any of the thugs Eliot knew. He was at least as old as his father would have been, something Eliot wasn't used to seeing in his line of work, and he was in shape. He wore his gray hair in a standard military buzz cut and his eyes were as sharp and calculating as a man of half his age.

Marcus was the one that introduced Eliot to the Retrieval business. The man was retiring soon, moving somewhere warmer and bluer. He'd been scouting the local talent for some time looking for a replacement, but hadn't yet found what he thought he needed.

Until Eliot came on the scene.

Eliot was different from the locals. There was a fire in him that burned slow and hot, but never made him reckless. Never cocky, no matter how many people he took down in a fight. And he was smart, Marcus could tell, he hid it well the but there were lights on in that boy's head.

And maybe he had what it took.

Eliot was suspicious by nature but cautiously accepted Marcus' invitation to learn about being a retrieval specialist. He needed the money and the lure of traveling the world was as strong as it would have been for any twenty-something kid with nothing to lose.

Just like with Jonathan, Eliot blossomed under the tutorship of an attentive eye, making few mistakes and learning quickly. Eliot knew how to fight, Marcus taught him to plan so he didn't have to. How to negotiate with kidnappers, how to spot a gun hidden beneath a thick jacket, how to make an impression and be forgettable.

When he was ready, Marcus ran a few jobs with him, then supervised a few more before turning Eliot loose and disappearing into the Caymans.

After that it wasn't long before Eliot had a world renowned reputation with overseas bank accounts and safe houses in three countries.

---

Eliot had taken to visiting Aimee every so often back in Texas. Usually he stayed for a few nights at a time. Helping with the horses and allowing himself to _relax _the way he could nowhere else.

But when he started Retrieving the nightmares he'd grown so accustomed to got worse. Sometimes he woke up screaming. Sometimes he woke up crying. But the first time he woke up swinging, and Aimee had been there to catch a glancing blow, he'd gotten up and left.

He'd heard she married and was doing fine.

Eliot probably would have stopped Retrieving after that.

Except, he realized, he didn't know how to do anything else.

---

Eight years into his chosen career Eliot was running a job in Egypt when a group of would-be African Mercenaries got the drop on him. He woke up in a cell with dirt floor and cement block walls. It was hotter than hell, his side hurt like a bitch and the only window was five inches wide and eight feet off the ground.

It was then that he met Nathan Ford.

Nathan was in that country investigating the theft of an antique gold monkey looted from the Cairo earlier that week. The same monkey Eliot had been brought in to retrieve but hadn't had the chance to get to yet.

Nathan got him out of the Egyptian hell hole. He said if they worked together they could find the artifact but instead of getting it for his client, he would give it to IYS.

Eliot played along; he kind of liked this guy Nate. He cared about results, not rules. And he was smart, but Eliot was smarter.

Or so he thought.

Just when he was going to double cross him, go for the big payout and disappear for awhile, Nate was there. As if he'd known all along.

And that was the second time Eliot found himself in prison.

"You tried to double-cross me, Eliot," Nate had said, looking surprisingly calm for only standing a foot away from a world-renowned killer.

Eliot glared through the bars, "you _did _double cross me, Nate."

The White Collar Cop, as Eliot had taken to calling him, shrugged in his long black coat, "I'm one of the good guys. It's called strategy when I do it."

Eliot scoffed and turned to sit down on the wooden bench against the wall, the only furniture in the small cell.

"So, you gonna leave me here?" He asked, careful not to let hope, or any other emotion, seep into the question.

Nate looked at him for a long time. "I already got what I need. And you're a criminal."

"A theif," Eliot corrected, looking down at his boots, mentally preparing himself for what was to come. The guards in places like this liked to teach their wards a lesson before turning them over to trial. If they made it to trial.

Nate shook his head, "A retrieval specialist."

Eliot looked up, wondering what he meant by making the distinction.

"Mali," was all Nate said.

And it was enough.

Memory's flashed through Eliot's brain at light speed.

_Mali. Hot. Desert. Guns. Sweat. Pain. Alone. Scared. So many guns. Help her. Get her out. Save her. _

_Too late._

"What about it?" Eliot asked gruffly, the suspicion clouding the clear blue of his eyes.

"Is it true?" Nate asked, his body language said 'casual' his tone said 'it matters'.

Eliot hesitated, "which part?"

"The part where you took on three dozen Tuarag and got that girl out alive."

Eliot stared at him for a long time, wondering how much Nate knew. How much anyone could know about that job. If he knew that the girl had died only days later from the injuries she'd received before Eliot could get to her. That Eliot hadn't gotten paid because of that very fact and that it hadn't mattered because she was only ten and she deserved to live for decades longer than that.

He'd been a dangerous man for a long time after Mali. And considering what he was now, that was saying something.

"Yeah. It's true. All of it." He volunteered.

Nate gave him another one of those long, assessing looks he'd been giving him for the past week. Just like all week, Eliot returned the gaze with equal intensity.

Then Nate nodded and turned to walk away without another word.

Two hours later Eliot was a free man again and he didn't stop until he was three countries and half a dozen aliases away to wonder how it had happened.

_TBC- So that's how Eliot met Nate, at least in my verse...still interested in more, cuz I'd love to give it...  
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	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** So this is the last chapter, it takes us up to where I think is a fitting end, which is really just a beginning. The beginning is kind of dark and maybe unexpected for a lot of you, but I think it's plausible considering the intensity of Eliot's personality and his vague, mysterious past. Thanks to **_VolceVoice, wanderingfriend, _**and **_vickyloka_** who reviewed every chapter as she read it! Thanks chica! Thanks again to everyone who read, reviewed or enjoyed this fic and remember, I'd love to hear from you! Enjoy! - pj

Eliot needed a change. He was in a downward spiral. And he knew better than anyone how dangerous that could be, _especially _in his line of work.

For years he'd prided himself on his control. On his self-depreciating tolerance of violence and evil and _wrong _in the world because that's what it took to survive. He didn't get involved. He didn't allow his emotions to run him, or even to surface.

He certainly didn't get attached.

But Eliot was human. And humans make mistakes.

He'd never thought it would come to this though. Was never going to let it.

He stared down the barrel of his gun, his breath a lot more even than it had been in…months maybe.

Eliot didn't like guns, but that didn't mean he didn't know how to use one. And it was impossible to miss from this distance. From this angle.

He never let himself dwell on the past. It was his philosophy for life, ever since leaving Texas. He'd made a choice. Right or wrong it was over and all he could do now was deal with the consequences. That's what he always told himself.

So why was this any different? Why was this hitting him so hard? Where had he gone wrong? What could he have done differently? Why-

He stopped himself. Those kinds of questions were exactly what had brought him here. Lead him to this.

He sighed and cocked it.

He couldn't stop seeing their faces.

Hearing their screams.

If he'd just been faster. Stronger. Fought harder. Better.

If he'd allowed himself to trust a crew, maybe he wouldn't have been overwhelmed by a job to big to handle.

Maybe they would still be alive.

And their eyes would stop haunting him.

He licked his dry lips, but it did nothing, because his mouth was dry too.

He was tired of working for bad guys. Of being a bad guy. He was tired of shades of grey. It was draining, always wondering if your friends were going to stab you in the back. Always watching the door.

He used to relish the idea of waking up in a new place everyday. Knowing he had no ties to the present and cutting the ones to the past. It used to be liberating. Now it was suffocating.

He was exhausted.

And it didn't pay as well as it used to.

Certainly not enough for this.

He closed his eyes, which he'd rarely done when faced with the business end of a .9mm, and held his breath, which he had.

And then his cell phone rang, startling him and he dropped the gun from his shaky fingers and cursed a prayer when it miraculously didn't go off.

Maybe he was more of a child of the technology century than he liked to admit, maybe he wasn't as ready to die as he thought, because he found himself reaching for the phone before the second ring.

"Yeah," he answered, his voice felt rough but no one would've noticed.

"No, just finished one," his eyes flicked to the gun, laying harmlessly on the floor, listening while his contact explained the Job in minimal detail, "why?"

He frowned, "well it matters now. Why does he want this?" He demanded, a very real threat in his tone.

His eyes narrowed as he listened and his heart rate sped back up to normal, jump starting his brain and breathing.

"Fine. Tell him I'm in." He closed the phone and threw it on the bed, then bent to pick up the gun, unloading the magazine and the bullet in the chamber with a quick flick of his wrist. He tossed the ugly weapon onto the bed and walked toward the bathroom.

"What the hell kind of name is Victor anyway?"

---

Eliot was surprised when he'd seen Nate, and knew the man recognized him but neither felt the need to reminisce. He was annoyed by the black guy from word 'go' and that had yet to change. But the blonde, well, he meant what he said about her too.

Though maybe it was a six or seven pound bag.

But he was pissed – _pissed _-when he figured out what Dubenich really was.

Because he'd tried to blow him up.

And though it seemed weird for a guy who'd been ready to eat his own gun not three days before to be angry now that someone had tried to help him along, Eliot didn't question it. Because he liked to do things _his way, _in_ his own _time. And he would leave this world just as soon as he was good and ready, _dammit_, and not a moment before.

And _no one _got to decide that but _him. _

Beyond that there was a fire. A fire that had dissolved down deep inside him was alight again. The same fire that had gotten him detentions when he was in school and propelled him forward in the seedy underworld of LA crime and burnt out years later after a horrific retrieval gone wrong in Moldova.

_That_ fire was back.

It both thrilled and terrified him.

---

The job was over. Finished. For real this time.

Eliot looked down. He'd never held that much money at one time. Hell, he'd never held that much money period.

This should have been the moment when he was ready – more than ready – to leave this behind. No encores. One time only. It was over and he was done.

So he turned his back and walked away because he couldn't honestly think of anything else to do.

But he couldn't get over the nagging feeling in his gut. The one that said 'they need you' and 'don't walk away this time'. The one that said it had been a long time since he'd had _fun _and _conversation _and it was _kind of_ _nice. _

And Parker really was as crazy as he thought but she was good at what she did and he could respect that. Sophie he still hadn't quite figured out but he had never met a more talented grifter. And someone needed to keep an eye on Nate before the man self-destructed completely and Hardison wasn't so bad if you tuned out most of what he said…

Hell, who was he kidding? He didn't have anything to go back for anyway. And nowhere to go back to…

If he was really honest with himself, Nate wasn't the only one that needed to worry about falling apart again.

Eliot pursed his lips and turned on his heel, heading back the way he'd come to head Nate off at the pass. He was not the only one that had felt there was something special about working with this crew, as Hardison and Parker were already walking beside the man, pleading their case.

And then Sophie called him.

Somehow, between the four of them, they managed to convince Nate to keep them together. Maybe not forever. Maybe not intimately.

But maybe enough. For all of them.

Eliot had come into this world kickin' and screamin'.

And he was not going down without a fight.

_END - So that's it, hope it was still enjoyable, I've already got another fics in the works so be on the look out! :)_


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